They were certainly of a most damaging nature.

Miss Driscoll and four other young ladies of her own station in life had formed themselves, some two years before, into a coterie of five, called The Inseparables.  They lunched together, rode together, visited together.  So close was the bond and their mutual dependence so evident, that it came to be the custom to invite the whole five whenever the size of the function warranted it.  In fact, it was far from an uncommon occurrence to see them grouped at receptions or following one another down the aisles of churches or through the mazes of the dance at balls or assemblies.  And no one demurred at this, for they were all handsome and attractive girls, till it began to be noticed that, coincident with their presence, some article of value was found missing from the dressing-room or from the tables where wedding gifts were displayed.  Nothing was safe where they went, and though, in the course of time, each article found its way back to its owner in a manner as mysterious as its previous abstraction, the scandal grew and, whether with good reason or bad, finally settled about the person of Miss Driscoll, who was the showiest, least pecuniarily tempted, and most dignified in manner and speech of them all.

Some instances had been given by way of further enlightenment.  This is one:  A theatre party was in progress.  There were twelve in the party, five of whom were the Inseparables.  In the course of the last act, another lady—­in fact, their chaperon—­missed her handkerchief, an almost priceless bit of lace.  Positive that she had brought it with her into the box, she caused a careful search, but without the least success.  Recalling certain whispers she had heard, she noted which of the five girls were with her in the box.  They were Miss Driscoll, Miss Hughson, Miss Yates, and Miss Benedict.  Miss West sat in the box adjoining.

A fortnight later this handkerchief reappeared—­and where?  Among the cushions of a yellow satin couch in her own drawing-room.  The Inseparables had just made their call and the three who had sat on the couch were Miss Driscoll, Miss Hughson, and Miss Benedict.

The next instance seemed to point still more insistently toward the lady already named.  Miss Yates had an expensive present to buy, and the whole five Inseparables went in an imposing group to Tiffany’s.  A tray of rings was set before them.  All examined and eagerly fingered the stock out of which Miss Yates presently chose a finely set emerald.  She was leading her friends away when the clerk suddenly whispered in her ear, “I miss one of the rings.”  Dismayed beyond speech, she turned and consulted the faces of her four companions who stared back at her with immovable serenity.  But one of them was paler than usual, and this lady (it was Miss Driscoll) held her hands in her muff and did not offer to take them out.  Miss Yates, whose father had completed a big “deal” the week before, wheeled round upon the clerk.  “Charge it! charge it at its full value,” said she.  “I buy both the rings.”